


getting there, going back, going once again

by haloud



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: Anxiety, Communication, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: Surely Wil must not have expected this when he demanded riding lessons, but here he is regardless.  Golden in the Sacaen sunlight, impossibly close, impossibly far away.  Eventually, something has to give.





	getting there, going back, going once again

**Author's Note:**

> title comes not from a song this time i know you're all SHOCKED

After the end of the war, normalcy returns with almost frightening speed.  Rath still cannot return to the Kutolah; however, there are uses for a man with strong ties to both one of Sacae’s largest tribes and several of the territories of Lycia.  Rath mostly wanders, but Lyndis always knows that she only needs call and he will come to her aid.  This fact, though, was not understood evenly between the two of them, as the amount of correspondence Rath receives these days is staggering.  And the most baffling fact of all is that he is almost equally likely to receive a social letter from an acquaintance other than Lyn, despite his tendency not to reply.

When he finally decides to send letters to the people so determined to correspond with him, the response is fast and effusive.  Months pass; Rath finds himself trading strategies and stories with Kent, sending regular updates on the plains to Lyn, and writing to Wil on a regular schedule.  And, to be honest, it’s Wil’s letters he looks forward to the most.  Wil persists in his requests for riding lessons, and in time letters become promises become Rath once every month making his way to a small town on the Sacae-Lycia border, refusing to call the strange pounding of his heart _nerves._

The town is unremarkable; the people here know _of_ Rath, even if he has never made any attempts to grow close to them.  However, Rath has passable trust in this stable keeper—something he could never say about a single hostler or innkeep he met on the long march—so he finds this particular village useful for his purposes.

It’s also located directly on the road from Caelin.

Wil’s sunny smile greets him from before the inn.  The young man pushes himself off the fencepost and bounds into the street, waving and laughing—Rath can hear his joy from even this distance.  A shocking lightness steals over Rath.  No matter how many of these lessons bring them together, he always seems to forget how strongly the boy’s disposition affects him.

Apart from the hours spent on the actual riding lesson, Wil’s whims usually dictate their meetings—shooting competitions, drinking contests, and long hours spent talking about their histories and aspirations.  However, on this occasion Rath is the one who has come with a plan.  They leave around midday, setting out into the open plain.  Wil, still so uneasy riding on his own, shares Rath’s saddle for the trip.

Wil’s hands curl over Rath’s abdomen, bunching up the fabric and scraping the rough weave against Rath’s skin.  The sensation combined with the warmth seeping from his palms raise gooseflesh from Rath’s scalp to histoes.  Muirle, Rath’s horse, keeps a gentle pace across the field, but Wil’s inexperience on horseback is impossible to ignore.  He sits stiffly, and his unyielding, awkward posture pitches him forward again and again against Rath’s back.  It makes for a somewhat fraught journey, truth be told.  Rath thanks, not for the first time, the fact that he has already laid the groundwork for a terse and unfriendly reputation, because the proximity and familiarity of Wil’s presence has Rath inescapably tongue-tied. 

He wraps Muirle’s reins around his hand and urges her to pick up the pace slightly.  Wil tenses further at the first gentle buck of the horse’s back, and his arms fly up to squeeze Rath in panic. Every muscle in Rath’s body tightens in an instant, and, for the first time in nearly two decades, he almost loses his grip on his horse.  Grasping hands were bad enough; this tight embrace replaces Rath’s thoughts with white noise.  His face burns beneath the sun.  A minute passes, and Wil’s grip lessens to something more bearable, but Rath’s heartbeat takes longer to subside.  He’d thought it would be better if their journey was over quickly, but no amount of speed could get them to their destination fast enough to save Rath from Wil pressed desperately against him.

Wil digs his chin into Rath’s shoulder suddenly, and Rath jumps.  When he speaks, Rath can feel the vibration of his voice in his throat.

“Where are we going?” Wil asks.  His hair brushes against Rath’s ear.  Rath swallows.

“You will see.  Just focus on staying ahorse.”

“I don’t like surprises,” Wil warns, but his tone is light. 

“You’re just nosy,” Rath responds.  The teasing response drops from his mouth unfiltered, shocking him far more than it does Wil.

Still, Wil gasps softly in mock-offense and removes his chin from Rath’s shoulder to headbutt him between his shoulderblades.

“If that is how you are going to be,” Rath pulls Muirle to a stop, “then we will walk the rest of the way to draw out the suspense.  We’re almost there, regardless.”

Muirle has always been well-behaved, so Rath has no worries about leaving her grazing while he and Wil continue their walk.  Rath hops down from her back, and his deft departure leaves Wil frantically clinging on to Muirle’s back, his hands gripping her mane and his body nearly horizontal across her back.

“Give me your hand,” Rath says.

Wil hesitates slightly, but then his warm hand slips into Rath’s.  Bracing Wil and lifting him by the side, Rath pulls the boy from the horse’s back.  Briefly, they come close enough to breathe the same air, and the sun illuminates the tiny, golden freckles spattered across Wil’s nose and cheeks.

“Alright.”  Wil clears his throat.  A beat of silence passes between them, flushed and awkward.  Then Wil seems to steel himself and, in a move that sends blood rushing hot to Rath’s head, loops his arm determinedly through Rath’s.  “Where are we off to?”

_Spirits preserve me._

Rath swallows down the dryness in his throat.  “Your difficulty riding comes in large part from fear.  Kutolah children overcome this in infancy, but that would not be true of village children.  I believe that exposure to untamed horses…will acclimate you to their being more harmless than their size at first appears.”

“Wild horses?” Wil squeaks, tightening his arm in Rath’s and pulling himself closer.

“…We will keep our distance.”

“Alright.  Alright!” Wil takes a deep, fortifying breath, puffing his cheeks out, and pumps his fist.  “Let’s do this!  W-we’ll be perfectly safe.”

“I…will ensure nothing happens to you,” Rath blurts out.

It would be so easy for Wil to mock him; Rath can hardly remember the last time he was so candid.  However, Wil seems not even to notice; he beams and tugs them both forward, turning his laughing, handsome face into the wind.

Over the next rise, they stop.  The whole of the plains spreads before them, golden and shifting and warmed by the sun.  On this clear blue day, they can see for miles all around them.  Fair summer mornings often mean storms in the evening, but they will be well set up in the inn long before the weather arrives.  Rath closes his eyes, inhales, and breathes out slowly, relishing the good weather and the smell of home and the light pressure of his companion’s touch.  Grass rustles, birds sing, and, in the distance, horse hooves crunch against the ground.  Rath breathes deeply once more.  No matter how old he grows, no matter how far he wanders, he will never cease being overtaken by the beauty of his home.

“Oh, _wow,”_ Wil breathes.  Rath opens his eyes as Wil drops his arm.  The boy takes a few steps forward, drifting through the waist-high grass, mesmerized by the scene before them.

“Is this your first time seeing the plains?”

“No…” Wil looks at Rath over his shoulder, and the light catches in his eyes.  “But this is my first time seeing them _properly—_ seeing them with you.  It’s so…alive.”

“Indeed,” Rath murmurs, the only response he can muster.  Wil is beautiful, so _vital_ in the bright, clear sunlight.  As a child, Rath spent kind-weather days foraging and hunting and, in the sweltering midday hours, lying on his back beneath the wispy clouds and dreaming he could melt into the bathwater warmth of the grasses.  He wants that now, with Wil.  He wants to pull them both down to nest, wants to fall into the searing sky, wants to pull at Wil’s hair with the wind and feel fingers sticky with sweat on his neck.  _You are breathtaking,_ he wants to say, but he lacks the tongue to shape the sweetness.  The words beat at the back of his teeth like the wings of a bird against an oncoming storm.

Wil, who always speaks his mind, would never fall prey to this trap, and Rath has never been more conscious of the differences between them.  The caveat to Rath’s admiration of Wil’s brazenness is, of course, the knowledge that if Wil reciprocated Rath’s feelings he would similarly be unable to bury the emotion.  If Wil’s heart pounded at the sight of him, Rath would know it.  Secrecy is not in Wil’s nature.

But time spend together forever tempters the bitterness Rath might feel at the truth.  Loneliness is the shrewdest of schoolmasters, so Rath knows better than to reject the company of a good friend.  The loneliness of unrequited love will, as all other aches, fade with time.

“Rath?”

_Pay attention, fool,_ Rath admonishes himself.  At Wil’s curious, concerned question, Rath takes a few steps forward to be beside him once more.  “Pay me no mind,” he says, “I was merely lost in thought.”

“Oh, it’s fine!”  Wil rubs the back of his head.  A crease forms between his brows that Rath has never seen before; though Wil continues to smile, that little wrinkle shadows his eyes.  “Of course, I’m sure you’re used to being out here alone.  It must be annoying to chaperone a tourist around, haha.  I’ll follow you from now on, don’t worry!”

“You are wrong.”

Wil just stares, mouth open slightly, expression still warped by some alien worry or fear.  It looks _wrong_ on his face.

“…I feel no annoyance at your presence.  In fact…I am pleased.  I wish for all to love my home as I do…and experiencing your wonder brings me great joy.”

By the time he is finished speaking, Rath’s face is burning and his voice the barest mumble.  He cannot even bear to look at Wil to see if that awful shade has left his eyes.  The words tumbled out, unbidden, hasty to stop Wil’s self-deprecation.  But to be so forthcoming…it is so unlike him that he wants to turn tail, flee back to where Muirle grazes peacefully, and never show his face to Wil again.

“Being here makes me happy, too.  Being here with you.”  Wil’s voice is uncharacteristically soft and hesitating, like he’s savoring each word.  He reaches out and squeezes Rath’s hand, and Rath finally glances up at the contact.  When their eyes meet, Wil’s smile returns.  “Now let’s go find ourselves some wild horses!  I’m so ready to totally not get kicked and die!”

“As you wish.”  Rath doesn’t suppress a small, dry chuckle.  He also does not release Wil’s hand, not even when Wil threads their fingers together and begins to swing their arms cheerily. 

_Let us stay like this for now.  For as long as possible._

Thanks to the good weather, they can see the horses picking their way through the grass even from the top of the rise.  However, they need to be closer for what Rath has in mind.  Wil shall never acclimate to the creatures if he watches them from so far away that he cannot inure himself against their size, the thump of their hooves, and the shifting of the powerful muscles beneath their skin.

“The goal is to recognize that horses are beasts as any other.  They wish to eat, exist, and be safe, and that is all.  Intrinsically, they pose you no threat.”  Rath pitches his voice low and even to avoid spooking the animals or Wil himself, who grows increasingly skittish as they approach the herd.

“It’s different from Muirle.  She’s so gentle and sweet, and you’re there, so… This is…” Wil swallows.  He is making a valiant attempt not to show his fear, but, as always, the purity of his emotion shines through in his face.  Rath squeezes his hand.

“I raised Muirle myself, and our bond is strong.  These are partnered to no one.  You must respect the true beast so you can see and understand the wildness that remains in even the most docile of horses.”

For a moment, Wil looks away from the animals to stare, shining-eyed, at Rath. “I love hearing you talk about this.  Your voice goes so warm when you speak of horses.”

Rath hums.  “Were it not for horses, I would be long dead.  There is no better friend than a trustworthy steed.  If you wish to learn to ride, you must recognize this.”

“I know the lesson is important, but I’m taking about just _you_ , Rath.  I always love listening to you speak, but I didn’t realize how different you’d sound when you’re passionate about something.  It’s…wonderful.”

Anxious embarrassment floods Rath’s body.  How is he supposed to react to a statement like that, from _Wil_ of all people—Wil, the most guileless creature on the planet?  And what is his aim with all these compliments? As usual, Rath finds himself wrong-footed in the conversation.   _Things are always better if I just keep my mouth shut; haven’t I learned that by now?_

Perhaps sensing Rath’s inner turmoil, Wil swings their arms once more.  “I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” he says. “It just seems like you haven’t gotten enough praise in your life, considering how amazing you are.  Oh, crap!  I just did it again, didn’t I? Really, I promise to stop if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“If you speak too loudly you will scare away the horses,” is Rath’s only response.

“Oh, right!” Wil’s voice drops back down to a dramatic whisper.

“Here.” Rath crouches gracefully and pats the ground beside him.  Wil hesitates before joining him, gaze lingering on the swaying grasstops.

“What if we get stepped on?”

“That won’t happen.  We are a fair distance from the herd, and they will head westward as the day goes on.  I want you to relax; listen to their movements, feel their hooves strike the ground.  Horses merely wish to live, like any other creature.  Immerse yourself in their world, and your fear will shrink away.”

“…Okay, Rath.”

He settles down cross-legged on the dirt and straightens his shoulders.  His face tips up towards the sun and, as Rath watches, he begins to time his breaths to slow and relax.

Technically, this exercise is for Wil’s benefit alone.  This is what Rath tells himself to justify leaving his eyes open and his attention on his friend, on how his vibrant blue shirt and white pants stand out against the brown and gold of the plains, on how the tension bleeds out of him the longer they sit undisturbed and surrounded by the oft noises of the herd.  His nose scrunches up when tickled by a lock of his hair blown across his face, and Rath breaks out into an irrepressible smile.

Surely Wil must not have expected this when he demanded riding lessons, but here he is regardless, following Rath’s instructions with no complaint and in trust, despite his fear.  Rath spent a decade and a half in solitude, understanding that he had a purpose but with no one to guide him to what that purpose might be or to reassure him that he still walked the correct path.  Even when circumstances led him to his years of service under Marquess Araphen, he bonded little with his comrades in the guard.  Lycian society unnerved him, and when faced with the camaraderie of his fellow soldiers he found himself frozen.  It was there that his reputation for being strange, stoic, and unfriendly began to take shape.

And then the war began.  He met Lyndis, whose life was his lived in reverse, who showed him determination and grace and honor.  Then he met a tribesman wandering in the least likely of places, who reminded him that the place he left behind, the same as any other; and though he may miss them in a deep, unfillable chasm in his chest, he was not cast out of a utopia.

Then he met this boy—this vibrant, honest, and loving man.  This man who lets himself be led out to face his fears on nothing more than Rath’s word that he will be kept safe.  Every day in Wil’s life brims with possibilities and endless energy, but now Rath discovers that he is as engaging in stillness as he is in motion.  As the changing light belies the passage of time, Rath basks in the ease of his presence, feeling accepted, feeling humbled, and feeling so deeply in love.

Rath is just about to open his mouth to declare the lesson ended for the day when one of Wil’s eyes opens.

“How’d I do?” He stage-whispers.

“You did admirably, Wil.  The herd has moved on now, so silence is no longer necessary.” Rath gets to his feet and extends his hand, chuckling warmly.

Wil’s eyelashes flutter; his mouth falls open slightly.  He raises his hand halfway but does so hesitantly, stopping before he even gets close to stare at Rath with eyes grown enormous in his face.  Pinned beneath that mesmerized brown gaze, Rath pulls back and curls his hand at his side, overtaken by uncertainty.  Did he do something wrong, overstep some boundary?  Some nuances of interaction still elude Rath, and he wracks his mind looking for the mistake—

“I-I’m sorry, Rath,” Wil stutters, and the sudden solemnity in his voice leaves Rath unable to formulate a response.  Head bowed, Wil remains on the ground while Rath towers over him, until the boy seems to come to some sort of conclusion and squares his shoulders once more.  “Let’s go back, yeah?”  He tries for his usual sunny tone but doesn’t quite achieve it.  He pushes himself up from the ground, takes a few steps, then stops to look around.

Putting his fingers to his mouth, Rath whistles fro Muirle and gets a distant whinny in response.  “Town is directly east of here.  We will arrive by sundown.”

“Sounds good!”

“Wil…”

“Hm?”

“…Nothing.”

_Why are you doing this?_ The question springs unbidden, unfairly, to Rath’s mind.  It isn’t as if Wil is the sort of person to intentionally cause confusion or distress; clearly, something is causing him to blurt out apologies seemingly from nowhere, and if Rath were any sort of true friend he would try to help.  But it’s too probably that the thing bothering Wil is Rath himself, and even after a life predicated on rejection the thought of losing Wil’s esteem leaves him choking and winded.  Even if he’s already made a mistake…soon Wil return to Caelin and Rath to Sacae proper.  Few words will travel between them until the already-appointed time of Wil’s next lesson.  This should be plenty of time for hurt feelings to smooth over and for Wil to forgive whatever hurt Rath has caused.

Suppose, however, he simply asks one of his fellow Caelin men to teach him to ride? That knight, Kent, is already teaching him the ways of the court; it would be simplicity itself for the man to expand his duties.  Caelin may not be known for its mounter archers, but Wil is more than talented enough to begin to combine riding and his already exemplary skills once he has the hang of things.  They have only the flimsiest of excuses still tying them together, and if Rath has unknowingly done something to jeopardize that…

Dread coiling in the pit of his stomach, Rath swings onto Muirle’s back.  He offers no assistance to pull Wil up this time, not after what happened when he offered his hand to pull Wil off the ground.  What _happened?_ After the closeness of the morning, the peace of the afternoon…the last thing Rath expected was to ride back towards town with Wil barely holding on behind him and sorrow pounding his chest flat.

Muirle dances beneath them, fighting the reins the way she hasn’t since she was a foal.  Rath leans in, rubbing her ears and clicking his tongue soothingly, but it’s a lost cause.  She senses his unease and is still unused to carrying two passengers.  Wil must be miserable, clinging on to her hindquarters, fingers going white-knuckled on the saddle, but he still refuses to steady himself against Rath.  The thought of all the world towards acclimating Wil to horses that is now being undone only makes Rath’s stomach sink further.

To make matters worse, heavy clouds are forming on the horizon.  Normally they would be no cause for alarm; out on the plains, storms that look close by could be forming miles and miles away, and town is a scant hour’s ride.  They have more than enough time to find shelter.

However, with Muirle as keyed up as she is, Rath knows to expect disaster.  And, sure enough, at the first distant clap of thunder, his kind, gentle horse rears up in fright. Rath bears down against the saddle and clenches his thighs tight, rising with her.  Wil, however, goes tumbling backwards with a high yelp.

Swearing, Rath vaults off the horse’s back.  He dodges a flailing front hoof and runs to wil, who is lying a yard or so away.  “Are you alright?” He demands, dropping down beside him.  Wil just stares, stunned, mouth gaping open.  “Did you hit your head?” Rath continues.  Wil shakes his head no, but Rath grabs him anyway, running a large, rough hand over Wil’s scalp as he checks for blood or tenderness.  A shiver runs through Wil, but he otherwise remains still as Rath checks him over.

Behind them, Muirle snorts and trots anxiously in place.  Rath must calm her before she bolts at the next clap of thunder, but for now nothing matters but making sure Wil is uninjured.  The awkwardness of before has vanished as if it never existed.  Above all else, before he worries about any of the intricacies of Wil’s emotions towards him, Rath needs him to be safe.  Safe with him.  Safe, and happy.

“Are you alright?” Rath asks again, but rather than a barked demand, his voice comes out soft and raspy.  He still cradles Wil’s head carefully, whose eyes are paralyzing as he searches Rath’s for something.  Agonizingly slowly, slow enough for a ringing to pick up in Rath’s ears, Wil reaches up to cup Rath’s jaw.

“I’m fine,” he finally manages.  His thumb inches across the sharp edge of Rath’s jawbone, making the muscles there jump and twitch at the unfamiliar sensation. But then, too quickly for how slow they came together in this way, Wil drops his hand and sits up out of Rath’s touch.  “You should go to Muirle,” he says, concern heavy in his voice.

He shouldn’t need someone else to tell him that.  Ashamed, Rath nods and gets to his feet, jogging over to where Muirle had wandered in her agitation. He approaches slowly, hands outstretched and placating.  Muirle shifts uncertainly.  Her eyes are white and frightened, and a pang of guilt runs across Rath’s nerves.  Still, despite everything, Muirle allows him to take gentle hold of her rains and pat her nose in an attempt to sooth her.

Rath leans his forehead against Muirle’s neck and feels her steadying heartbeat there.  “Apologies, my friend,” he murmurs, “it must have been a strange and difficult day for you.  I’m so sorry.”  Not only has she spent the day bearing twice the weight she usually bears, her partnership with Rath has left her unused to dealing with so much conversation and emotion.  No wonder she got overwhelmed.

In the corner of Rath’s eye, Wil edges towards them.  He seems to have picked himself off the ground with little problem, though he has a hand pressed to his side and winces in pain at least twice that Rath notices.

“We must reach town before the storm arrives,” Rath says as Wil approaches.  “If you are injured, then I do not want you walking.”

“What should we do?” Wil shifts his weight anxiously.  That furrow has reappeared on his brow, digging pins further into Rath’s heart.

“…There is a single situation with which I am comfortable.”

“What is it?  I don’t like that face you’re making.”

“…I recognize you are still unfamiliar with riding, but…”

“Oh no.”

“I do not wish to overwhelm Muirle again by asking her to carry us both.  I will be beside you the whole way, and I have rope in one of the saddlebags if you would prefer to be tied on.  I—“

“Hush.”

Unexpectedly, Wil holds up a finger, close enough to nearly brush Rath’s mouth.

He continues, “I know you’ll help me.  I trust you, Rath.  And…I trust Muirle, too.  I think we have a little in common.” His face goes soft as Muirle gently nudges Rath’s shoulder with her head.

Rath nods and once again stands firmly as a handhold and footrest assisting Wil as he hauls himself up onto the horse’s back.  Once he’s seated and steady, he nods at Rath, a comically serious look on his face; in turn, Rath whistles and Muirle begins a slow walk.

The wind picks up as they make their way through the tall grass, making Muirle bow her head and snatching at Rath’s hair.  Wil leans in close over her neck, tense but clearly trying to hide it.

“…You’re doing well,” Rath says, squinting against a sudden gust and studiously avoiding looking at his companion.

_“_ Th-thanks.”  The tremble in his voice gives him away, but Rath chooses not to comment on it.

It’s slow going, but they make decent time towards town.  Rath focuses on guiding Muirle and keeping her straight against the wind, and the task allows him to forget about the strange tension building in place of the awkwardness from before.  It’s none of his business what’s going on in Wil’s head, and, for the first time in Rath’s life, he has to actively steel himself against caring too much about the thoughts of others.

Town comes into view on the horizon, just a series of shapes and straight lines peeking over the tall grass, as dusk truly starts to fall.  As they reach the final stretch of their journey, Wil interrupts the silence of Rath’s concentration with a small voice easily stolen away by the wind.  Puzzled, Rath tilts his head at him, and Wil speaks louder with a blush coloring his cheeks.

“Listen, Rath, about earlier…”

Panic seizes Rath by the neck.  He doesn’t _want_ to talk about earlier; he doesn’t want to know whatever it was he did to make Wil think he had to apologize.  He just wants to get back to town, to the inn where Wil is staying, and to part ways for three more months.  He wants to bolt back into the plains like a startled snake, to be alone again—to come to terms with the fact that he may _never_ see Wil again, if he’s made some mistake.  Talking only ever makes situations worse.

“I really am sorry,” Wil continues, unknowing of the hurricane of butterflies he’s unleashing in Rath’s chest.  “Everything’s all weird now, and it’s my fault for _acting_ weird, so I’m just…I’m sorry.”

But as difficult as talking is, Rath cannot allow Wil to go on thinking that he’s done something wrong—not when Wil has been nothing but bright and precious the entire time Rath has known him. 

“The fault lies in me,” he says, ignoring Wil’s immediate protest.  “I…did not mean to give the impression that I required any sort of apology from you.  Ever.”

“Rath,” Wil groans, slumping forward, “You’re maing this super hard for me right now, buddy.”

“That.  That is not my intention.”  What else is there to say?  A new, strange helplessness yawns within him, his interpersonal skills not nearly up to the task of navigating this minefield.  For the first time since he was a very young child, Rath feels choked by his own inadequacy.

“It’s alright.  It’s alright, Rath.  Just…listen.”  Wil sighs heavily.  “I know what I’m about to say might make things even weirder between us.  That’s why I didn’t say anything earlier, but at this point I think I owe you a little explanation, if only because I can’t stand for today to end like this.”

“…That is my wish as well.”

“Good.”  Wil leans his forehead against Muirle’s neck and tilts his head so he can watch Rath pensively.  “The thing is, Rath, I really do feel like I owe you an apology.  And of _course_ it was super weird to you because, like, I chose the stupidest way to go about it, and you obviously can’t read my mind, so exactly what I was thinking I really don’t know—“

“Wil.”

“Right!  Right.  Sorry.  Again.  The thing is that I hate how little we get to see one another.  I hate that we meet up, what, three times a year?  It isn’t enough.”

Rath swallows.  _It isn’t enough._ And isn’t that the crux of the problem?  Rath cannot provide enough to be a fixture in someone else’s life, no matter the circumstances.  He simply must accept reality.

“But no!  See, this is what I was afraid of.  Please don’t look like that.  I’m sorry because,” Wil runs his hand over his face and through his hair, “It’s just so _unfair_ of me.  I mean, I saw you out on the plains today.  You looked so peaceful, so comfortable, so confident—I mean, you always have this really intimidating, really attractive mysterious confidence thing going on, but this was _totally_ different.  Like, what am I supposed to do?  Be all like ‘Oh, Rath, totally drop everything you know and love and come hang out with me in Lycia!’?  I’m such an asshole for even considering, but I _have been._ For like months now.  And I’m a total hypocrite, too, because it’s not like I’m ready to leave Lyndis’s Legion and Caelin behind, so how could I even _think_ of asking you to do something like that? And now I’m rambling like a complete loser, and you haven’t said anything, and also you’re _totally_ never going to want to see me again, which is fair! I, like, really, really don’t ever want to see myself again either after all this, so we’re totally on the same page right here, man. And.  Uh.  I’m sorry.  I’ll stop now.”

Wil cuts off his babbling with a truly pathetic sniffle, burying his face into Muirle’s mane.

Reeling from the deluge of words, Rath worries the leather reins in his hands and considers his response.  He isn’t totally sure that he caught everything Wil was trying to say, but he tries to filter it down to the most important parts.

“I…I, too, wish we had more time together.” Rath’s throat is very dry, but he forces the words out all the same.  If Wil is being so open with him, he deserves the same courtesy.

“You do?” Wil replies breathlessly, eyes going wide with delight.  “i—I mean…” A blush overtakes his face, and he hides it once more.

“I have no solution to the problem of distance.  However, you may rest assured that I require no apology for your desiring my presence.  In fact…I am flattered.”

“I.  I still haven’t told you the entire story, though.”

The silence stretches on as Rath waits for Wil to continue; it goes on too long, until Rath is searching his suddenly blank mind for the proper response.  Is it too late for a simple questioning word or sound?  If it was actually Rath’s turn to speak, has he given Wil an impression of uncaringness or boredom?  “Go on,” is all he manages, yelling internally, clearing his throat to hide the anxious catch in his voice.

“The thing is…the thing is something I really can’t take back, so I’m just going to go ahead and spit it out because we’re almost to town and will be going our separate ways, so even thought it reveals my total cowardice, I’m glad I waited this long to speak up! This is. This is absolutely going to change everything about how you think of me, but don’t feel bad about it even if you feel angry or hurt or betrayed, because I understand.  I really, really do.  It’s weird and it’s probably unwelcome, and—“

“Just say what it is and allow me to judge for myself,” Rath interrupts what was building into another spiraling rant.

“I don’t know how best to put this.  I don’t just want to blurt it out or go down some horribly embarrassing, cheesy route.  The truth is…the truth is that I just really, really like you.” Wil pauses for a beat but picks his speech—confession—back up before Rath can even open his mouth.  “And I don’t mean as a friend, either, before you figure out a way to deflect this or self-deprecate again.  You’ve always intrigued me from the first time we met in Araphen, and over the past years my admiration for your courage, strength, and dignity has only grown.  When we’re apart, I find myself thinking of you nearly every day.  I want to be with you, Rath.  As a partner.  As…as a lover.”

This time, Wil neither hides his face nor launches into a lengthy apology.  In fact, he turns almost frighteningly serious, staring fixedly at the side of Rath’s head.  It’s Rath’s turn to hide.  He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it before he can speak a single word.  His heart pounds in his chest like a rabbit hunted by a hawk.  The entirety of the plains ought to be able to hear it—to spot his weakness and turn him inside out.

It’s impossible to hear himself over his own heartbeat, but Wil deserves better than only stony silence as a response.

“I have never been able to express myself well with words.”

“I know, Rath.  It’s really alright.  I don’t expect you to—“

“I do not want you to get the wrong impression.  I _wish_ to possess the ability to reveal my emotions as you have, but I do not.”

“…W-what is it you want to say?”

That I have been completed by your confession.  That I return your affections with the fullest of hearts.  That this one day spent by your side has meant more than a thousand days alone.

But Rath can’t truly say any of those things.  Instead, he says, “Logically, I have no idea how a relationship would work.  The fact of my inexperience aside, you are already dissatisfied with our amount of platonic contact.  Would those feelings not worsen if romance was involved?”

Wil droops at the rejection of his hopeful optimism.  Nibbling on his lip, he says, “So you really think there’s no hope?”

Muirle tosses her head at Rath’s rapidly tightening grip on her bridle, and Wil has to fling his arms around her neck to stay seated.  He winces brutally as the impact jars his torso.

The ground beneath them evens out as they reach the beaten trail to the entrance of the village, a scant few yards away.  Their time together will last a little while longer—a few hours of sleep in separate rooms, a silent breakfast, and a stilted goodbye—but this day, this day spent in stolen, golden sunlight, has come to an end.

“To what end do you suggest we continue hoping?” Rath asks.  His fists stay clenched in agitation; he grinds his teeth on the words he wishes he could say.  He’s never made a habit of making promises, and he isn’t going to start now when there’s so much at stake to be broken.

“Well…don’t you think we owe each other that much?  I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so strongly about someone; I just want to carry with me the knowledge of your love.  That’s all, really.  I’d love to spend more time with you, but as for what I want…”

“How are your injuries?” Rath demands abruptly.  After all, who wants to “spend more time” with someone who gets them injured in a completely avoidable accident?  Muirle never would have reared if Rath had been able to keep his emotions in check.

“O-oh, they’re fine.  Just a few bruises are all, really; honestly, I could have walked.  Rath, please don’t change the subject.  Talking about this stuff is hard enough—“

“I was trying to prove a point.” _Now prove another one to yourself and actually say what you are thinking._ “…That you wouldn’t have been hurt if I’d had more control. That there is irrefutable evidence that you shouldn’t want…”

“That I shouldn’t want what?  You?  I’ve known you for a while now.  I’ve fought with you, bled for you.  I’m not saying I know all your secrets—that would be foolish—but I like to think that I’m observant enough to be pretty savvy about the possible warts on a relationship with you.  I don’t _care,_ Rath.”

“Maybe you should.  I am…I couldn’t…” His voice dies off, and he hunches his wire-tight shoulders in frustration.

“It’s alright.  Take as much time as you need,” Wil says, so softly.

Rath measures his breathing and continues.  “An engagement between us would be short.  I am…incapable of expressing myself to a degree acceptable to a lover.  You would be disappointed or hurt or—“

“ _Rath.”_

Wil slides off Muirle’s back.  He does so inelegantly but competently—far from the clumsy man who needed Rath’s help to move so much as an inch just this morning.  As Rath watches, surprised, Wil reaches out and takes his shoulders.

“Listen to me.  I don’t want _fear_ to prevent us from trying something that could be great!  I understand it’s new; I understand that there are things that could go wrong, but, _please,_ trust me when I say that it could be so worth it!”

Strong, sure fingers curl into the muscles of Rath’s shoulders through the fabric of his tunic.  Rath’s breath catches in his chest, and he’s pinned beneath the blazing gaze of a man who’s suddenly sure what he wants and what he’s willing to do or say to achieve it.  The thing is, thought, he’s right.  Rath is afraid.  He’s afraid of disappointment.  He’s afraid of hurting someone.  He’s afraid of being hurt in a way brand new and potentially more terrible than ever before.  It’s a cowardly, curdled feeling in the pit of his stomach; Rath hates it with every fiber of his being, but in the face of Wil’s honesty he cannot deny that it’s a part of him.

Helpless, cornered, Rath lowers his eyes.  “You spoke of my courage, but this love requires a bravery I am not sure I possess.”

“You do! I know you do.  You spent, what, fifteen years utterly alone, and it didn’t crush you.  It changed you, maybe, and maybe things will be difficult because of it, but you are the bravest man I know.  In every sense.”

Rath sighs.  His hand uncurls from its tight fist around Muirle’s reins.

“If you truly don’t want this, then I’ll back off.  I swear it by Saint Elimine and whatever else you want me to swear by.  I just don’t want to lose you.”

To Rath’s horror, Wil sounds close to tears.  This has gone on long enough.

Rath surges orward and wraps Wil into an embrace.  Wil’s breath escapes in a tiny gasp.  It’s awkward and gangly; Wil’s arms are trapped between them, and Rath has no idea of the appropriate distance that should be between them.  But then Wil just melts into him, face tucked against his neck so that Rath can feel him grin and his lashes flutter, and Rath’s arms tighten involuntarily, craving this, reveling in the closeness.  Rath screws his eyes closed and leans his head against the side of Wil’s.

How long they stand like that—cramped and clumsy and hoping the moment never ends—neither could say.  Long enough that the clouds on the horizon move noticeably closer.  Long enough for the first drops of rain to shake the grass around them.  As their clothes begin to soak through, Rath finally pulls back and, with a light cough, says, “We really should get inside.  For Muirle’s sake, at least.”

His horse, sweet, patient creature that she is, is grazing patiently a few yards from the village gates.  When they approach, Wil strokes her nose and smiles as she snuffles at him in response.

With a warm smile that Wil doesn’t turn to see, Rath says, “…Would you like to lead her back to the stable?”

“Really? You think I could?”

“I think you could lead anyone anywhere, Wil.”

Wil remains transfixed by Muirle’s large, amber eyes watching him, but his ears turn bright red at Rath’s words.  “A-alright.  What should I do, then?”

Rath lets Wil and Muirle walk ahead of him, holding back so he can observe.  In the strange, shifting light of the rain and the steadily darkening sky, Rath has to blink rapidly to keep his eyes focused on them as they pass through the gates.  At the corner where the street begins, Wil cranes his head around to look for Rath and, seeing him lingering a ways back, waves his hand over his head.  It’s impossible to actually see in the distance, but Rath knows in his chest that Wil is grinning from ear to ear.

They haven’t reached any answers or concocted any solutions to the problem of separation.  All they really have is the conviction of their hearts—a conviction that Rath still isn’t sure he can trust—and the reminder that trust is more important than anything else.  Whether that will be enough to carry them forward cannot be predicted.

Rath moves forward, walking steadily towards that smile.  They’ve lived through half a war and then another war on top of that.  Wil has traveled hundreds of miles to learn things he could learn at home if he so chose.  Wil has opened his heart, opened his arms, reached out across the distance in spite of his fears. 

Now all Rath can do is the same in return.

**Author's Note:**

> the next installment in my series "writing obscene amounts of words about fe7 ships i thought i was over" only this is also 2,000 words longer than the matthew/guy one lmfao
> 
> that sounds self-deprecating but actually i have no regrets whatsoever.
> 
> you can find me over at haloud.tumblr.com!


End file.
